


it could only be you

by tonberry



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, please heed the warning, that means yuri is 15, victor has dubious morals, yuri is a determined horny teenager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 05:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10937604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonberry/pseuds/tonberry
Summary: Victor is his, and they're not like brothers no matter what other people may think.





	it could only be you

Yuri was ten years old when he met Victor Nikiforov for the first time.

He'd known, of course, exactly what signing on with Yakov would mean: early mornings, late nights, the potential to become the best... and Victor. Who at twenty-two had already made a name for himself and seemed to be only getting better. Victor, who'd waved at him from the side of the rink with a cheerful smile that had made Yuri blush and spin away furiously. He wasn't a _fan,_ and yet he couldn't deny he watched all of Victor's performances avidly on TV.

Later on that first day, Victor had skated out onto the ice to join him, and all Yuri could do was watch the grace and fluidity with which he moved and think, _that will be me_. He found it hard to look away, and touched down on his next jump because he hadn’t been concentrating. Yuri wasn’t scared of anyone or anything, but for a while he couldn’t bring himself to approach Victor of his own accord. On his breaks he would watch Victor from the side of the rink, hands clutching the barrier, riveted by the quads Yakov had forbidden him from trying.

It didn't last. As he became all too aware, Victor was just a man and an irritating one at that. By the time Yuri was eleven, he was sick of Victor ruffling his hair and trying to pick him up. Gone was any sense of awe – familiarity breeds contempt, as Yakov had told with him amusement after one frustrated rant too many. But Victor was irrepressible, and never faltered in his apparent quest to befriend Yuri. For most of that year, Yuri tagged along behind Mila and bitched about Victor with her.

As the months passed, Yuri spent more and more time at the rink. He tried to keep it from being too obvious, but there wasn’t much he could do to hide it. He pointedly ignored Yakov’s warnings about overexerting himself, throwing everything he had into practice. On the occasions he was banished from the ice, he still hovered around the edges, watching. He wanted to be the best, yes, but he also didn’t want to go home. He tried not to think about it.

He knew Victor noticed, too, but surprisingly he didn’t comment on it. In fact, he grew quieter around Yuri, and began to offer more in the way of practical advice. Yuri almost missed the teasing.

One day, he’d gone back to the locker room and found Victor wrapping his blistered feet. He’d looked so serious, with a grimace that spoke of the hours of painful practice he must have put in. Yuri had hesitated before finally saying, “you need to be more careful.” They both knew that it was an inevitable part of this career, that being careful did not really come into it. They did what they had to do. But Victor just smiled at him, and nodded. When he’d finished binding his feet he’d turned to Yuri, and asked if he liked dogs.

Yuri had shrugged, but Victor was already showing him photo after photo on his phone, and before he knew it he’d already somehow agreed to come and visit.

\-----

By the time Yuri was thirteen, he was regularly staying the night at Victor's apartment. It was close to the rink, after all, and on those nights when he couldn't face going home, Victor would be there. He never asked questions, and Yuri loved him for it. They would eat together, and when Yuri pushed the food around his plate, mostly uneaten, Victor didn’t lecture him. Victor understood what it was like. There was a guest room that was very slowly becoming _Yuri's room_ : his things on the dresser, some of his clothes in the closet.

Sometimes they watched movies together, with Makkachin at their feet. In the darkness with only the soft glow from the screen, Yuri would tuck his legs up beneath him and lean against Victor’s side. He didn’t need to say anything, Victor just always knew; he’d pull Yuri in close and stroke his hair. Part of Yuri hated it, to be treated like a child, but he longed for it all the same. In the dark it felt like he didn’t need to hide. It was warm, and comforting, and Victor felt like home.

When he was fourteen, he started looking forward to the nights he would spend at Victor's for altogether different reasons. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had started – because he’d always been watching Victor, had always been _looking_ , even if previously it had just been to study his skating, the way he moved. But at some point, he found his eyes were lingering on the way Victor’s ass and thighs looked in the sweatpants he wore to practice, the pair that _clung_ ; on the way Victor was so fucking shameless after a shower, wandering the apartment in nothing more than a towel. (Yes, it was Victor’s apartment, but did he think Yuri didn’t have eyes?)

One night on the way back from the rink together, the wind was viciously cold and Yuri had been beginning to seriously regret not putting anything on over his hoody. He hunched his shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets, and when Victor began to laugh he turned to tell him to shut the fuck up and—

The words caught in his throat as the heavy warmth of Victor’s team jacket settled around his shoulders. “Better?” Victor’s tone was mild, but there was a smirk on his lips that somehow made Yuri feel even warmer than the jacket could. He usually hated that fucking smirk.

“I guess,” he muttered, even as he pulled it more tightly around himself.

But that’s not where it ended; once they arrived, Victor made no move to take the jacket back, and Yuri did not return it. He showered and went to the guest room alone, as he always did. It never usually felt lonely, but tonight the pale, blank walls and half-empty shelves that screamed _not quite lived in_ felt overwhelming. Yuri hesitated, just for a second, before grabbing the jacket from where he’d tossed it over the back of a chair, and turning out the lights. When he slipped into bed, he brought it with him.

The darkness made it easier not to think; to bury his face in it and take deep breaths, to pretend Victor was here with him. The sudden arousal that curled in his gut made him shudder, and he slipped his hand inside his loose shorts even as he mouthed the red and white fabric and wished it were draped over naked shoulders. He didn’t have any pictures – he would tell himself he didn’t need them, that he wasn’t that desperate. But he could still picture the exact moment he’d _wanted_ to capture; Victor fresh from the shower, towel clutched half-heartedly around his waist, leaning down and opening the fridge. He’d turned and peered over his shoulder, damp hair falling in his eyes, and asked if Yuri had wanted juice. No, he hadn’t wanted the fucking juice.

He shifted, pressing his forehead to the pillow, grabbing at the jacket with his free hand, clutching it to him as he fucked into his other fist. His arm trembled with supporting his weight, and he bit his lower lip rather than risk making noise. He’d wanted – he tried to picture, what he’d wanted to do then. Push Victor up against the fridge, drop to his knees and push aside the towel—

Yuri came with a stifled groan and lay still for a moment, heartbeat slowing and thoughts clearing. _Fuck_.

The next morning, he threw the jacket at Victor’s head as he left for his run, and didn’t look back.

If Victor noticed anything out of the ordinary with it, he never said a word.

\-----

Previously, when people had teased him and Victor about being like brothers, it had irritated him because he hated the implication that he was a child, that Victor was in any way his _superior_ or some kind of guardian. He may have been a world-famous champion by that point, but Victor was just Victor. And he was Yuri’s, and Yuri was his. But when Yuri was in his fifteenth year, it started frustrating him for an entirely different reason.

Victor wasn’t his _family_. You didn’t perv on your family when they were straight out of the shower and half undressed. Anyway, Yuri already had family of his own – and while he didn’t really give a shit about his parents anymore, he had his grandpa. That was all the family he needed. The comments didn’t seem to bother Victor, though, who would just laugh and wink at him. Perhaps he really did see Yuri as a little brother. He liked to think he saw Victor’s eyes lingering from time to time, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.

It wasn’t an impulsive thing; he thought about it often, different fantasies playing themselves out in his mind. It was on his mind while he was warming up, gaze catching on the play of muscles under Victor’s shirt; at night, when he brought himself off desperately, all too conscious of Victor sleeping just beyond the thin wall; at his parents’ house, shut away in his room, when it was all he could do to ignore the screaming rows.

And one night, when he’d followed Victor home again, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He hung back in the doorway, taking his time removing his shoes and coat – he knew Victor would go on ahead to the living room and sprawl out on the sofa, TV murmuring softly. So he ushered Makkachin away into Victor’s room, then moved quietly to his own and changed, finding his smallest shorts and the t-shirt that he liked to think sometimes caught Victor’s attention, the one with the wide neck that slipped off his shoulder. When he returned to the living room, stomach tight with anticipation and what he didn’t want to admit was fear, Victor was dozing.

Yuri had done this so many times in his fantasies, even now it didn’t feel totally real. Perhaps that’s what gave him the final push of courage to do it – to go to stand beside him, and look down on those chapped lips that he wanted to lick open, on the shoulders that were so much broader than Yuri’s own, the pale strip of stomach that showed where his t-shirt had been unconsciously pushed up, and—

Settling a knee by Victor’s hip, he swung his other leg over so he straddled him lightly, and watched Victor blink slowly awake. He could see the exact moment confusion gave way to realisation, and then there was an expression on Victor’s face he’d never seen before.

“Yura.” Victor’s voice was low, and slightly rough. “What are you doing?” His hands seemed to come up almost reflexively to grasp the sides of Yuri’s bare lower thighs; it felt so fucking warm and intimate, and he knew his shorts hid nothing. Victor’s gaze moved rapidly over him, eyes dark, and Yuri felt his skin prickle in anticipation. He knew he’d been right. Victor _had_ been looking. The thought gave him a new surge of confidence and he leant forward, putting his hands either side of Victor’s shoulders, hair falling around his face.

“What does it look like?” He licked his lips, more out habit and nerves than any attempt to be sexy, but Victor’s sharp intake of breath made him want to try it again, and the grip on his thighs tightened. “I want to touch you.” Victor’s eyes closed briefly at that, and he was still for a moment.

His eyes opened, and in the silence Yuri was hyper-aware of the quiet chatter from the television. The glow from the screen caught in Victor’s hair, and Yuri almost missed it when he spoke.

“You shouldn’t.” Victor looked away as he said it, utterly unconvincing; his hands started to slide slowly up Yuri’s legs towards his ass. It was all the encouragement Yuri needed, and he surged forward, hands moving to tangle in Victor’s hair, and licked into his mouth. He didn’t really know what he was doing, but Victor seemed to like it; the noises he couldn’t seem to help making went straight to Yuri’s cock. So he should have expected it, really, that when one of Victor’s hands crept around to his front, to palm him roughly, he— _fuck_. He came, a choked groan escaping into Victor’s mouth.

Raising himself back up slightly, Victor’s mouth tried to follow him so he pushed him down, panting. “Asshole. I wasn’t ready.”

He expected a smirk, for Victor to say something like “ _I think it’s obvious you were”_ , but instead he just gave Yuri a long look, before pulling him down against his chest and burying his face in Yuri’s hair.

Yuri immediately noticed two things: first, that being held by Victor was just as good as he’d imagined, and second, that Victor was really fucking hard. And it was for him. Victor pressed kisses into his hair, hands running up and down his back, and Yuri twisted a little, trying to look up at him. Part of him wanted to say something, ask something, to help sort out the tangle of emotions lurking in his chest. Instead, staring up at Victor’s jaw, he said, “I wanna blow you.”

Victor’s hands froze on his back. _'You shouldn’t'_ \- Yuri could practically hear the words pent up inside him, was expecting them, even. But instead, Victor surprised him.

“You don’t have to.”

Yuri smiled against Victor’s shirt and slid down his body, pushing up the hem to bite his stomach gently. “I know.” He felt hands in his hair again, as though they belonged there the way Victor belonged to him. Victor didn’t ask him if he was okay, or if he’d done this before. He just kept his gaze on Yuri, like he couldn’t bear to look away. Even when Yuri tugged down Victor’s sweatpants - he wasn’t wearing any underwear, the fucking pervert - and Victor’s head tilted away to one side, his eyes remained locked with Yuri’s, lashes lowered.

When he took Victor in his mouth he felt the hands in his hair tighten their grip, almost painfully. Yuri didn’t have any experience with this; it felt too big, he kept gagging when he tried to take Victor in too deeply, and his jaw was starting to really fucking ache. But it was worth it for the helpless lust he saw in Victor’s eyes, for the way his breathing grew uneven, the way the hands in his hair started to urge him on rather than restrain him.

Victor’s voice was rough when he next spoke - “Yura, I’m going to--”

But Victor’s warning was late and desperate, and the come was warm on his cheek and bitter in his mouth. Victor immediately pulled Yuri up so they were resting chest to chest, and gently wiped his face off with his sleeve.

“Sorry,” he said, and his voice sounded choked.

Yuri wasn’t sure what to make of his expression so he buried his face in Victor’s neck, kissing it softly. “You’re disgusting.”

There was a brief pause, and Victor’s arms tightened around him.

“I know.”

Yuri was fifteen years old when he slept with Victor Nikiforov for the first time.  


 


End file.
